


Breathing Room

by thedropoutandthejunkie (elenajames)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, Comfort Toys, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, sex as a coping mechanism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 02:16:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7022512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenajames/pseuds/thedropoutandthejunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anxiety. That's what Sam's started calling it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathing Room

There’s an ache in his chest, heavy like someone’s pushing down on his breastbone. Dean rubs at it a little in hopes of soothing it and making the tiny pricks of panic it stirs up settle. It works, but only for a moment; then the ache flares right back up. Deep breath, two, three, four, out, two, three, four, but the second breath only gets to two before his lungs catch. Grateful for the loud music hiding his breath, Dean tries to concentrate on singing along with Metallica even though he feels like he’s suffocating. 

 

A headache digs its way through his temples by the time his breathing mostly settles down. Dean gets Sam to fill the car when they stop so he can get coffee, stirring in cream and sugar he’ll deny later. Heat soothes his trembles and the lingering bits of the ache, and, if Sam sees the way Dean’s hands shake when he hands over Sam’s water and snacks, nothing is said. 

 

Dean’s not sure if he prefers it that way or not. 

 

* * *

 

Booze helps. It coaxes his jaw to unclench and chases away fluttery pain in his belly. Dean’s just over the cusp of drunk, knocking back another shot and swallowing down the burn. Across the table, Sam’s loose and happy, sprawled out as much as he can in the tiny booth and shooting flirty looks at someone over Dean’s shoulder. Dean would be jealous if a pretty brunette wasn’t shooting glances his way from behind Sam. 

 

Sex will do him wonders, Dean knows, so he slides out of the booth, snagging his beer and sauntering over to the girl at the bar. He learns the girl’s name is Ashley, and she’s an education major, a local back home for break. She speaks with a country twang in a soft voice, and Dean finds himself slowing down his intake, trying to soothe a bit of the fear he can sense beneath her sweet demeanor. 

 

Brushing a thumb along her cheek, Dean murmurs, “I have a room in the motel just down the road. N’I won’t be mad if you say no.” 

 

Ashley shoots a nervous glance at the bartender - probably knows him, being from a small town like this - and Dean lets the guy get a good look at his face. 

 

“Alright,” Ashley agrees, letting Dean help her down from the barstool and guide her out the door. Sam rolls his eyes when they meet Dean’s, but, from the look of things, he has his own girl on the line. 

 

Dean almost feels bad about the heavy taste of beer and liquor in his mouth when Ashley opens right up for him, but the sticky-sweet taste of rum and cola clings to her lips as his tongue darts over them. She’s shy about taking her clothes off, and Dean willingly tugs the sheet over them once they’re on the bed. Her breasts are soft in Dean’s hands, dark little nipples tight under his touch. He can’t resist nuzzling between them, breathing in the scent of floral perfume. 

 

“Can I?” he asks gently, brushing his fingertips over the curls of her pubic hair. Dropping a kiss to her belly when she nods, Dean nudges Ashley’s thighs wide enough to settle between. Her hands seek out his, clinging tightly while his tongue dips between her labia. She tastes of tang and spice, clit sensitive as he teases along it. It’s all too easy to lose himself in the rhythm of eating her out, letting her soft moans and clenching muscles steal all his focus.

 

Ashley tugs him away before she comes, panting even as she urges him back up so she can kiss the taste of herself off his mouth. She only breaks away to lean over the edge of the bed, digging a condom from her purse and watching intently while Dean rolls it on. She’s warm and tight around his cock as he sinks in slow, hands clinging to his arms like she needs him to ground her. 

 

Rocking his hips in a familiar rhythm, Dean feels heat coil through him when her mouth drops open and she makes sweet little sounds of pleasure. Her eyes are wide, locked on his face as he pumps into her. 

 

“Don’t do this much, do you darlin’,” Dean murmurs, feeling the shake of her head as he presses a kiss to her throat. “Hard to find someone to treat you right?” Reaching up to thumb a nipple with one hand, Dean seeks out her mouth for another kiss, dragging that same thumb down to stroke her clit. She nods ever so slightly, eyes finally closing when their lips meet, and Dean can feel the vibration of her moan against his mouth. 

 

Ashley tightens all at once, trembling as she comes with a quiet cry. Her nails dig into his biceps, enough to sting but not enough to break skin. She holds him close, not protesting in the least as he chases his own orgasm, just brushing their lips together. Her mouth muffles his curse, legs dragging him in deep while he pulses into the condom. 

 

Dean half expects it to be awkward; a lot of time the shy ones are, and he really can’t blame them. But Ashley helps him guide the condom out, rolling out of bed to use the bathroom. She surprises him by crawling back onto the bed, scooting in for a cuddle. Neither of them say much, not even when she gets up again and starts pulling on her clothes. Dean walks her to the door, tugging on his jeans so he can watch her go down the street, only heading inside when her car starts up. 

 

Sleep comes easy, just like Dean knew it would. He doesn’t even hear Sam come in, weighted down with sex and alcohol, sheets still smelling of sweet perfume. 

 

* * *

 

Nerves wind around his throat, and twitch under his skin, making it hard to breathe and sit still. Drinking helps, but only if he can get drunk and  _ stay _ drunk, something that’s getting increasingly difficult to hide from Sam. His hands shake as he pours whiskey into his coffee, and he tries not to think too hard about the thing that untwists inside him even with the first sip. 

 

He can still hunt. Even buzzed and with that fucking lump crawling up his windpipe, he watches Sam’s back, taking down as many uglies as he can before he finally fucking suffocates from whatever the hell this is. 

 

It’s after a job that it hits him hard, a craving that spirals out of control. He barely makes it to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him so Sam can’t see him cling to the sink like a life preserver. His lungs won’t suck in enough oxygen, making the room spin around him. The toilet seat clatters down louder than he’d care for, but he can’t worry about that now, not so long as he can collapse down on it. 

 

Blocking out the world with his hands, Dean tries to focus on making his fucking lungs work, counting breaths and curling in so tight on himself that it hurts. Sam bangs on the door after a while, sounding concerned as he calls out Dean’s name but he can feel the way his voice will break if he tries to speak. 

 

The knob rattles slightly as Sam picks the lock, and Dean wishes he could sink through the floor when a gentle hand lands on his shoulder. Sam rubs along his shoulder slowly, encouraged when Dean doesn’t shrug him off or push him away. The steady motion is soothing, and Dean finds himself breathing in time with each slow stroke. 

 

After a long while, Dean finally looks up, and Sam’s hand stills on his arm. 

 

“Better?” Sam asks, and Dean doesn’t want to feel comfort in that Sam doesn’t ask if he’s okay because he’s  _ not _ okay but better - 

 

“Yeah,” he croaks, clearing his throat awkwardly when his voice catches. “Better.” 

 

“Do you want to lay down?” 

 

He doesn’t want to, not necessarily, but he needs to, so Dean nods. Sam helps him up, letting him walk out of the bathroom under his own power. Dean’s still shaky, nerves fried and brain in shambles, but he manages to strip down to just his shirt and boxers. Sam brings a cup of water in offering, watching as Dean sips it down and going to refill it while Dean crawls under the covers. 

 

The dark is good, and the weight of the layers of blankets are comforting even though they smell like cheap detergent and cigarette smoke. There’s a click when Sam turns off the light, and a dip in the bed behind Dean when Sam lays down. He gets wrapped up in his brother’s hold, face red in embarrassment but it feels too good for Dean to want to protest.  

 

Sam has gone and brought back food while Dean slept, and takeout sounds like the perfect way to drown some of the lingering effects of his crash. He’s even more grateful when Sam doesn’t make him talk; it’s not like Dean would know how to explain it anyway. 

 

* * *

 

Anxiety. That’s what Sam’s started calling it, and - once he’d braves doing some Googling - Dean realizes his brother is right. The descriptions he reads through have him mentally ticking off the symptoms and yeah. While the internet probably isn’t the best place to get a diagnosis, it’s not like Dean can see a psychiatrist. There’s no way he’d be able to talk to them about the shit he’s seen and been through. 

 

What he’s not expecting is for Sam to buy him a toy. A plushie, even, tiny and soft in his palm. He pets over the fur, fingers guided by Sam’s while he’s lost in the haze of another attack. It feels good, gentle, the rhythmic motion a steadying point that he leans on as much as he leans back into Sam’s arms.

 

Dean’s cheeks heat when he realizes he’s clutching a stuffed animal, the little penguin dented from his grip. He smooths down the ruffled fur and traces a fingertip over one shiny eye. Sam scoots back to give him room to roll over, and one hand comes up to cup Dean’s, both of them holding the toy between them. 

 

“I read it can help. You don’t have to keep it if you don’t want to, but I’m not going to judge you if you do,” is all Sam says about it. He doesn’t quite manage to hide the soft smile on his lips when he catches Dean tucking the toy into a pocket of his duffle. 

 

It almost manages to make up for the amount of shit Dean feels like when Sam moves forward with his plan to dry Dean out. He can’t really remember the last time he’d made it to sundown without having a drink, and trying is proving to be a shit show. Dean’s bitchy, temper shorter than it’s ever been. He feels sick most of the time, anxiety a loose but threatening coil just at the base of his throat. 

 

“This is bullshit,” he grits, peeling out of the liquor store parking lot he’d almost unconsciously pulled into. Sam had shot him a look that said more than words could, and Dean bit back the urge to throttle his brother. 

 

“We’ll get beer later. After we interview the witnesses, we’ll get some dinner and a six pack and see if there’s a skin flick on, alright?” 

 

Dean snorts at that. “Trust you to try to bribe me with porn, Sam.” 

 

“You telling me that’s not going to work?” 

 

“Fuck no. But you better be serious about that six pack. I feel like  I’m going to come out of my skin, man.” 

 

“I swear.” 

 

And Sam makes good on it. The case is a bust once the vics come clean about the magic they’d been dabbling in. Their books and other paraphernalia end up in the Impala’s trunk after a thorough ass chewing from both Winchesters. 

 

“Friggin’ witch wannabes. They’re almost worse than the real thing,” Dean grumbles, guiding the car into a parking spot at the convenience store. 

 

“Hey, at least real witches know what they’re doing. They’re not gonna curse themselves by accident,” Sam offers, levering himself out of the Impala. 

 

“No, but they’re gonna curse  _ us _ on purpose, Samsquatch. That’s why I said almost.” 

 

Sam just shakes his head as he heads inside, disappearing from Dean’s sight as he heads back toward the beer cave. He returns with a six pack of bottles, Shiner in place of the El Sol Dean can never find this far east.  They swing through the small drive through, ordering a good chunk of the menu and Dean practically drools when he gets a whiff of what’s in the paper bags. 

 

Beer tastes awesome, better for the salty crunch of corn nuggets and just right for washing down grease from the burgers. Dean doesn’t even rush the second one, savoring each sip as he leans back against the headboard, closing his eyes while he relaxes. Maybe it’s a bit odd, waiting for Sam to dig through the channels, but they’ve been drifting around each other in this weird tension for a while now. 

 

“Nothing. Gonna grab the laptop.” 

 

“Mkay,” Dean hums, listening to the quiet clacking of Sam’s typing. 

 

There’s the familiar beat of porno music, and Dean startles when the first moan that comes from the laptop is distinctly masculine. A well-built brunette is leaned back into a couch, legs spread to make room for the equally-muscled guy kneeling between them. Tattoos shift and muscles ripple while the guy on the couch gets blown. 

 

Dean doesn’t realize he’s staring until Sam settles down on the bed next to him. The queen is wide enough for them to sit side-by-side, a fact Sam is clearly okay with taking advantage of as he slowly pets himself through his jeans. Trying to get with the program, Dean abandons his beer in favor of undoing his fly. 

 

Sam’s managed to pick out something that’s not full of ridiculous dirty talk. Instead, the top is murmuring what sounds like genuine words of praise, loosening his grip on the bottom’s hair to pet down the guy’s nape. While Dean’s never really bothered to look for gay porn, he can’t deny this is definitely working for him. 

 

Cautious fingertips brush his dick, making Dean startle. He drops his eyes to see Sam’s fingers just inches from his cock and Dean’s suddenly got heat rushing into his face. Letting his hand fall, Dean watches as Sam moves closer, gripping his cock gently and stroking just once. Dean gives an encouraging sound, and copies Sam’s position. It’s a little awkward with their arms bumping into each other as they jack each other off, but Sam’s got talent and Dean must be no slouch with how Sam’s rocking up into his fist. 

 

Little brother comes like a freight train, hips stuttering up as thick come pours from his dick. Dean strokes him through it, managing to hold back his own orgasm until Sam’s done. A quick rub of Sam’s thumb along his crown makes Dean shudder and curse, cock pulsing quick and he has to push Sam’s hand away when oversensitivity washes over him. 

 

“Fuck, Sam. Come like a fuckin’ porn star,” Dean says, trying to sound grumpy and coming off impressed. 

 

“Been a while,” Sam shrugs, and Dean groans when his brother proceeds to lick his come-coated fingers clean. 

 

* * *

 

The penguin fits perfectly in the inside pocket of Dean’s favorite jacket. It makes an odd little lump, so he only leaves it there when they’re in the car, not wanting to draw any attention to it. When panic starts clawing at his throat, Dean can reach in and touch it, petting his finger over its soft, tiny head. It helps, more than he ever thought it would. 

 

Sam notices; of course he does, but Dean’s okay with that. It’s nice knowing someone else is there to help Dean keep a handle on things, that Sam will catch him when he falls - that Sam will wait until Dean’s ready to stand back up. 

 

Panic attacks still happen. Hunts hit him the wrong way, or something will get under his skin until he’s left gasping for breath and curled up on the bathroom floor or between shitty motel sheets. But they’re not as bad now that he’s not trying to go it alone, not with Sam to whisper logic and love in his ear and the penguin clutched in his hands. 


End file.
